I didn’t want to be here.
I’m in the supply closet, gripping the metal shelf until my fingers go white. I close my eyes and try to say it out loud.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
No. Too formal.
I try again, voice catching.
I’m so sorry he’s gone.
Gone where?
One more time, swallowing the lump in my throat.
I’m so sorry
The word lands heavy in my mouth like a stone I can’t spit out.
I remember the monitor’s final shriek—thin, unwavering, absolute. The respiratory therapist watching me, waiting for my cue. I froze. He turned it off. My badge feels too new against my chest. The photo on it looks like someone else. The smile is forced, eyes too wide. I keep tucking it into my scrub top so it’ll stop bouncing like a nervous tic.
The fluorescent bulb hums like a wasp. Outside the door, the hall reeks of bleach, old coffee, fear. I press my palm to my eyes until I see stars. Anything to stay here another moment.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the mop bucket.
When I step out, I see them.
His wife sits with both hands around a Styrofoam cup, staring at the door as if she can will it to open the right way. Her knickers are pink and raw, from too much sanitizer or too much praying. Their daughter is too young for this. Backpack still on, hair in a messy bun, eyes darting from her phone to the hallway. She’s sending texts. Or deleting them. I almost turn around and go back into the closet.
I walk toward them, forcing each step to land. My soles squeak on the polished linoleum, loud in the hush of the night shift. I’ve rehearsed this in classes, in training, with actors who didn’t really cry. I can’t remember any of the right phrases now. I remember how, during rotations, they’d let me observe from the corner while someone else said it. I never saw the words actually land. Only the aftermath.
“Doctor?” the wife says, standing so quickly her cup sloshes coffee onto the floor. She doesn’t seem to notice.
“Is he okay?” the daughter asks, her voice pinched.
My heart is a wild drum. Words clog in my throat. I open my mouth, but words get stuck in the dark pit of my chest.
I swallow.
“I’m…”
I’m so sorry.
The wife’s knees wobble.
“I’m…”
I’m so sorry.
The daughter’s eyes flood, her mouth opening and closing like a hooked fish.
“I’m…”
I take a shaky breath, fighting to stay steady.
I’m so sorry.
Each word, a splinter tearing its way out of me. The hallway spins.
This wasn’t in any of the trainings. No one told me what to do when a mother sobs so hard her breath catches in wet, hiccupping gasps, or when a daughter smashes her palm against the wall, over and over, willing her grief into something solid.
I don’t know how many times I say it—three, maybe four.
I’m so sorry.
I’m so sorry.
I’m so sorry.
My voice is raw, ragged, a threadbare echo in this broken moment.
Later, when someone else guides them to chairs and tissues, when paperwork replaces cries and questions, I slip back to the closet. I sink to the cold floor, knees drawn tight to my chest, scrubs crumpled, badge pinching my collarbone like a tiny, sharp reminder.
I taste bleach on my tongue, sweat mixing with salt. My fingers rub together, slow and desperate, like washing away a stain that won’t lift.
Practicing.
I’m…
This time, the words don’t even sound human.